


off my feet

by daisysusan



Series: in other words [3]
Category: Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 01:11:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/302089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisysusan/pseuds/daisysusan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dustin just thinks having sex on a trampoline would be awesome, okay?</p>
            </blockquote>





	off my feet

It’s not that Dustin is obsessed, per se. He’s been obsessed with things before, and this isn’t obsession. He just … thinks about it a lot.

That is _not_ the same thing as obsession. If he were obsessed, it would be all he thought about, it would be interfering with his ability to do his job or spend time with his friends or having a satisfying sex life.

It’s just he’s one-hundred-percent positive that trampoline sex would be the _absolute best thing ever._

And he might mention it to Chris.

You know, kind of a lot.

So maybe it makes sense that Chris thinks he’s obsessed with having sex on a trampoline. (In fairness, Chris thinks he’s obsessed with trampolines in general. And also with Doctor Who.)

But either way, it’s never going to happen, because Chris has flat-out refused to have sex with him on a trampoline—

“Seriously, Dustin?” he’d said. “You do realize that we’ll probably be seen and then arrested for public indecency, and that if we aren’t, we’ll fall off and break all our bones and have to explain why we’re naked next to a trampoline in flagrante delicto, right?”

Dustin had whined and cajoled and played the video over and over, begging Chris to see just how fun bouncing around during sex would be, pointing out that they already had a trampoline so it would be super-easy, but Chris just answered that he didn’t like the idea of little kids watching them have sex and, besides, he’d have to clean up the PR mess when they broke their necks and had to go to the hospital.

—so Dustin has pretty much resigned himself to never getting to have sex on a trampoline. (At least not with Chris, and it’s not like he’s ever really planning on having sex with someone who isn’t Chris and … yeah.)

But then his birthday rolls around.

(Dustin is an optimist, definitely, but he’s not completely delusional, and he hadn’t for a moment imagined that their usual birthday sex agreement would extend to something the other person had already flat-out refused to do.)

So when he wakes up on his birthday to find a post-it note stuck to his forehead (not unusual) and peels it off to read, in Chris’s tidy cursive, _meet me on the trampoline, birthday boy_ , it takes him a moment to process what exactly is happening (and a moment longer to convince himself it isn’t a dream—albeit a very good one).

Once he gets there, though, Dustin is out of bed as quickly as he thinks he’s ever been, pulling a t-shirt on over his boxers and searching the room frantically for shoes before deciding that they’re just not worth it and he’d rather be having sex anyway. He just barely manages to keep himself from running out to the trampoline—in the back yard, surrounded by trees even though it makes keeping it clean a bitch—because he sometimes pretends he has dignity. (Chris knows better, but Dustin just likes to pretend sometimes.)

Chris is sitting on the edge of the trampoline, grinning broadly and looking entirely too pleased with himself. He’s wearing a blue t-shirt that Dustin is pretty sure is only intact because it looks so good on Chris that he’s almost careful when he tears it off, just so he’ll get to have the pleasure of seeing it on him again; there’s a broom lying on the ground near his feet, so he must have already swept the trampoline. As Dustin approaches, Chris slips off his perch onto his feet and, still smiling, grabs him by the waist, whispers _happy birthday_ again his lips, and kisses him firmly.

Dustin, despite the promise of trampoline sex in his near future, finds himself perfectly content to stick with the kissing for a little while. Chris’s mouth is warm and soft again his, and his hands are trailing across Dustin’s back, fingers rubbing circles on his hips, nails scraping softly down the back of his neck. For his part, Dustin lets one hand slip into the back pocket of Chris’s jeans, the other winding around his waist to draw him closer.

And then Chris, ever the pragmatist, is pulling him towards the trampoline (and toying with the elastic of his boxers, but Dustin is trying really hard to ignore that, because he’s only got one shot at this and he’d like to actually make it onto the trampoline, not just press Chris down into the grass and suck him off, though that might be something to try another time). When he can’t back up any father, Chris hops back up onto the edge and Dustin steps forward eagerly to stand between his legs.

They haven’t actually stopped kissing yet, except brief pauses for gasped breaths, but the angles are a little strange—Chris is already taller than him and now he’s boosted up a little to sit on the trampoline—so Dustin abandons his mouth in favor of quickly divesting him of his (lovely) shirt and kissing down his chest, pausing occasionally to bite softly or flick at a nipple, enjoying Chris’s soft gasps when he does. He starts working the button on Chris’s jeans, a little disappointed that the trampoline is too high for him to just sink to his knees and get Chris to make a few of those embarrassing high-pitched noises that always escape when Dustin starts—

“Nuh-uh, Dustin,” Chris says, voice a little strained. “It’s your birthday, and we’re going to—” his breath hitches when Dustin nips at the skin of his abdomen right above his jeans, “—have sex on this trampoline, so get the fuck up here.”

He grabs Dustin under the arms and pulls up, but the leverage is so bad that Dustin ends up doing most of the work himself, pitching forward as Chris scrambles back out of his way and they both collapse onto the black mesh laughing.

Dustin’s head is level with Chris’s thigh, legs hanging off the edge of the trampoline, and he takes the opportunity to run a finger up the inseam of Chris’s jeans, enjoying the way he shivers and pushes towards his hand. But Chris is singular in his focus when he has a clear goal, and today’s goal is evidently “fuck Dustin on a trampoline,” because he is yanking Dustin away from his crotch (Chris is endearingly altruistic, even in—trampoline) and pressing their lips together again.

This kiss is messier, a sloppy press of teeth and tongue; Chris nips at Dustin’s lips, runs his tongue along the inside of Dustin’s mouth. Dustin presses forward so that he’s not next to Chris anymore, he’s directly on top of him, enjoying the feel of Chris’s long frame pressed to his.

Chris is still fiddling with the waistband of his boxers, fingers dipping under and stroking Dustin’s ass teasingly, making him squirm. Dustin absolutely does not whine when Chris pulls his hands away, but the only thing that stops him is that he’s being divested of his shirt and Chris’s fingers are trailing lovingly up his sides. Against his lips, he feels Chris smile and Dustin pulls back the tiniest fraction of an inch to kiss the corner of his mouth and whisper “I love you” against his skin.

Because he is a devious bastard, Chris takes advantage of Dustin’s momentary weakness to flip them over.

The mesh gives under Dustin’s back and then he feels himself rising back up towards Chris—which Chris was clearly not anticipating, because their heads bang together, and Chris grumbles, “Ow, why did I even agree to this?”

And that? Is not an acceptable train of thought at all.

Dustin immediately gets to work reminding Chris _exactly_ why he agreed to did, fumbling with the button of his jeans and squeezing at the curve of his ass.

He’s proud to say it works, and within moments Chris is pressing into his touch and his complaints have turned are a lot less coherent and also a lot more like pleas—“Fuck, Dustin, yeah, keep doing that.” Dustin, for his part, just keeps working at Chris’s pants, trying not to get too distracted by his voice or the sporadic kisses he’s pressing to the side of Dustin’s face and neck or the familiar weight of him pressing Dustin down into the unfamiliar springy give of the trampoline.

When he starts shoving Chris’s pants off, though, Dustin feels a hand around his wrist and Chris says, “No, wait, shit, I need to—” then digs into his pocket quickly, pulling out a condom and a few packets of lube and throwing them onto the trampoline.

“Can I throw your pants across the yard now?” Dustin asks, because he really, _really_ wants Chris to not be wearing them any more so he can slide his hands across the back of Chris’s thighs or run a finger lights up his dick and watch him squirm for more contact.

Chris laughs and wriggles until the jeans are hooked around one ankle, then smirks and says, “Not if I beat you to it,” and sends them flying somewhere off in the general direction of his shirt.

And _oh hey_ , Chris is not wearing anything under his pants, obviously because he’d planned for this sex venture but Dustin is, like, _human_ and the idea of his boyfriend not wearing underwear, regardless of the circumstances, is really fucking hot. Dustin flips them back over, anticipating the bounce this time, relishing the way it slams their hips together.

“Fuck,” Chris says, before Dustin can kiss him again, and then again, “Fuck.” He swallows hard, eyes unfocused (probably from the tiny bounces in the trampoline every time they shift that are rubbing his cock against Dustin’s hip), and forces out an entire sentence. “I want fuck you.”

Dustin knows with a lot of certainty, from the way his cock twitches and also the way his mind goes a little blank, that he’s _never_ going to get tired of hearing Chris say that. Before slamming their mouths back together, he grins and says, “Sounds like a plan.”

Pulling away from the kiss after a few moments, Chris pushes futilely at Dustin’s boxers. “Take your pants off, Moskovitz,” he orders, “They’re getting in the way.”

He squirms out of the boxers happily, tossing them off the trampoline along with everything else, and turns back to look at Chris—who, as it turns out, is now sitting up to watch him appraisingly, slicking up a few fingers absently as his eyes trail over Dustin’s now-naked body.

It would have made him nervous once, Dustin knows, during the time that he thinks of vaguely as _before_ —before California, before Chris, before years of waking up curled around someone he loves with every piece of himself. But now? Dustin enjoys watching Chris’s eyes, pupils blown wide even in the morning sun, as they trace his poorly-defined muscles and pale skin. He also enjoys getting to return the favor, getting to take his time looking over Chris’s slim torso and narrow hips.

But then he remembers that they are sitting on a trampoline, where he is being allowed to act out his number one sex fantasy and all he’s doing is staring at his boyfriend (who is, admittedly, disgustingly attracting) while said boyfriend is looking at him like he wants to eat him up.

And by “eat him up,” Dustin means “fuck him until he can’t walk.”

So, uh, yeah. Getting a move on with that.

He crawls over to Chris, who curls a had around his neck and drags him into his lap and also into a sloppy, poorly aimed kiss—and, more to the point, nudges the slick fingers of his other hand against Dustin’s ass.

Because Chris really, _really_ is a bastard who enjoys teasing people until they go fucking insane, he just leaves a finger there, pressed against Dustin’s hole but unmoving, while kissing him thoroughly (now that they’ve actually gotten their mouths lined up). He licks at Dustin’s lips, into his mouth, curling their tongues together.

Dustin … just squirms.

It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the kissing, because he really does, but he fucking wishes Chris would get a move on with the fingering which will ideally lead to the fucking which will lead to orgasms and other things generally recognized as good by the world at large.

Like _sex._

But he does appreciate the kissing enough that he doesn’t drag his mouth away from Chris’s to berate him for not moving his fucking fingers because Dustin is squirmily trying to trying to fuck himself down onto them but the angles are wrong and Chris obviously does not want to let that happen, so mostly Dustin is just writhing helplessly, trying to get more pressure or friction or really just fucking _anything._

When Chris pulls back to breathe (and kiss down Dustin’s jaw, and nip as his earlobe, and suck _hard_ against the skin just below it), Dustin finally breaks.

“Move your fucking hand, Christopher, or so help me—”

And—because Chris just wanted to hear him beg or because it’s his birthday or really Dustin does not even care why—Chris does.

He skims his finger lightly around Dustin’s hole, and then presses it in slowly, grinning as Dustin’s face goes momentarily slack.

“Fuck,” Dustin says.

He doesn’t really think that there’s anything else he needs to say, because “fuck” just about covers it. As an exclamation, it explains what he’s feeling pretty well, and as a verb, it explains what he wants to be doing.

Chris squirms beneath him, and Dustin, because he is ever so much nicer, runs his fingers around the head of Chris’s dick. (The soft noise Chris makes reminds me that he wasn’t being altogether altruistic.) The squirming, though, continues just enough to have them bouncing up and down just the slightest bit, making the movements of Chris’s finger in his ass slightly irregular and sometimes pressing them forwards into each other, rubbing their dicks together.

He feels Chris press another finger into him, and he bites his lip to keep from groaning. They’re outside; just because no one can see doesn’t mean that no one can hear them. Dustin’s hips roll forward of their own accord, jostling them enough that Chris’s ass bounces all the way off the mesh. The Dustin-in-Chris’s-lap setup wobbles precariously for a moment, but when they fall the few inches to the trampoline’s surface again, the momentum shoves Dustin down harder onto Chris’s fingers and he feels his eyes roll back a little bit.

Laughing a little, but not meanly (because Dustin still has his hand on Chris’s dick and Chris is not stupid), Chris slides a third finger into him—and then crooks them all. Dustin’s head falls forward, and the only thing he manages to mumble into Chris’s shoulder is an elongated “Shit.”

For his part, Chris is rolling his hips up, trying to get more pressure from Dustin’s light touch but mostly succeeding in bouncing them around.

Dustin laughs, because it’s really kind of ridiculous that they’re having sex on a trampoline, and Chris smiles up at him, and this—right here, right now, all of it, straddling Chris’s legs with Chris’s fingers inside of him and the sun spreading over them through the trees and the ridiculousness of bouncing around wildly on a trampoline and Chris smiling at him and then biting his lip—is probably the happiest Dustin has ever been.

Chris must sense his sappy thoughts, or maybe Dustin’s smiling stupidly, because he leans forward and kisses him softly, like they aren’t grinding against each other desperately, and then presses another soft kiss to Dustin’s cheek and says “I love you” into his ear.

And then, because Chris is the most bastardly devious person who was ever a devious bastard, he follows that up by biting Dustin’s earlobe and saying, “Actually, I love you so much that I am going to fuck you _right this instant,_ ” and then pushing Dustin off his lap to find the condom he’d thrown somewhere.

Dustin just sits, because he’s really not sure what to do besides stare at Chris’s ass and avoid combusting on the spot. He’s still, dazed by lust and happiness, as Chris rolls on the condom and slicks himself up, smirking knowingly at Dustin. He crooks a finger, urging Dustin out of his sex-induced stupor because he knows that Chris means “come here and we’ll have a lot of very satisfying sex” and that’s worth forcing himself to move.

When he gets close to Chris, though, he finds himself pushed backward until he’s lying on the trampoline, with Chris hovering over him, cupping his neck lovingly and leaning down to kiss him.

Then Chris pushes into him, slowly but without hesitation. Dustin’s eyes really do roll back this time, he’s sure of it, and his back arches off the mesh a little bit.

Chris presses him back down, staying on top of him so that they’re touching from the shoulders down, and buries his face in Dustin’s neck, breathing deeply.

Mostly Dustin is just trying to steady his breathing a little, thinking about things that aren’t Chris’s touch and scent all around him, which is easier said than done, especially once he starts moving his hips.

The first thrust makes the trampoline give around him, and Dustin feels himself sink, bounce up, and sink again. The motion, slightly out-of-time with Chris’s hips, slams them closer together.

On the second thrust, Chris finds Dustin’s prostate, which makes everything go a little sideways, like his brain is a skipping record. He settles into a rhythm after that, every trust making them bounce higher off the trampoline’s surface and then slamming them back together when they hit it again. It’s ridiculous and absurd and every time Dustin’s back hits the mesh it’s like Chris slips in deeper and he feels it in his stomach and behind his eyes and he knows he’s groaning every time even though someone might hear but he’s really pretty sure he couldn’t stop if he wanted to.

Dustin feels himself tensing now, with every thrust, and scraping his hands uselessly down Chris’s sides, pulling at his ass. The next time they hit the trampoline, Chris arches a little, swearing softly.

It only takes Chris a few more thrusts, still flying into the air on every one, before he tenses and comes, biting down on Dustin’s shoulder to muffle a soft cry.

And after that, it only takes a couple loose pulls by Chris’s hand around Dustin’s dick for him to be arching high off the mesh and making a noise that he will deny to his dying day was a whimper.

Chris flops down on top of him, a comfortable deadweight.

“That was _awesome_ ,” Dustin says.

“Yeah,” Chris says, laughing drowsily and kissing the side of his mouth, “Happy birthday.”


End file.
